


And turn away your eyes

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 01:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: If she forces herself to be honest, she’s very tired of doing favors for people. Show-verse AU.





	And turn away your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from “A Dream Lies Dead” by Dorothy Parker.

She agrees to the arrangement as a favor to Tyrion.

Honestly, she’s deeply fatigued by favors- she sometimes thinks she spends half her life offering assistance, providing support, granting boons.

_And yet, no one ever clamors to do a favor for me._

But Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell finds that she cannot refuse her one-time husband, not when he asks so earnestly…

_Not when he needs this so desperately._

Although Sansa had clearly offered her hospitality to Ser Jaime and provided him with a safe haven out of her fondness for (and gratitude to) Brienne, Daenerys Targaryen still watches him with narrowed violet eyes, unambiguous loathing etched across her fair face. When Ser Jaime crosses the courtyard or steps into the stables, the enormous ink-black dragon hovers nearby, huffing steam through his nose as he stares…as he waits for some excuse (any excuse) to consume the golden-haired knight in a dazzling plume of flames.

“She accepts your declaration of sanctuary…for now,” Tyrion explained, a storm swirling through the contours and crevices of his expressive face. “But if you bring Jaime into your own family, he’s less likely to fall victim to an… _accident_.”

She’d opened her mouth to protest, but Tyrion continued, a wry edge of irony sharpening his tone:

“And just remember this: it shan’t last for very long.”

(News of King’s Landing arrives up north in a heavy delay, but they’ve still received word of Cersei Lannister’s tumultuous rule, and Daenerys hasn’t allowed the thought of White Walkers and ice demons to thwart her determination to claim the Iron Throne. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lives on borrowed time…and Sansa can’t imagine Cersei’s twin allowing his beloved sister to depart this world alone.)

No septons remain at Winterfell, so the marriage ceremony must take place in the godswood, under the auspices of the North’s ancient dieties. Sansa balks at this, balks at forcing the Old Gods of her father and ancestors to bear witness to this farce…

And yet she kneels on the cold ground, weaving the fingers of her right hand through those of Jaime’s left, and recites the proper words before the grim visage of the weirwood.

He’s spoken not a word to her since all this began, her now-husband. He knows well enough what to say during the ceremony- Jon presented him with a paraphrased version scrawled on a scrap of parchment a few days before. His hand lies still in her grasp, making no attempt at engagement…but his eyes remain alive, his gaze darting around the godswood until it rests on the lady knight of Tarth. For her part, Lady Brienne refuses to look at Jaime, keeping her own pretty blue stare firmly focused on the ground beneath her feet.

The feast (if it can be called a feast) passes in a rapid whirl, as both the bride and the bridegroom receive a steady stream of insincere congratulations. The silence between them hardens into stone- Sansa hears Jaime engaged in conversation with Tyrion, seated on his other side, and a terrifying burst of fury curdles her stomach. When the Imp approaches to bid her a good night, his face contrite as he courteously kisses her knuckles, she wishes for nothing more than the courage to drive those knuckles directly into his nose until Lannister-scarlet blood drips into his mouth and stains his whiskers.

And yet, she does nothing. She does nothing as the revelers disperse, she does nothing as Jaime finishes his dozenth mug of ale, and for several long moments, she does nothing as Jaime rises from the table and offers her his arm.

But somehow, some way, in the fullness of time, they reach her bedchambers. Perched on one side of her bed, Ser Jaime leans down to fumble at the ties to his boots with his left hand- Sansa watches, oddly transfixed, counting the moments to see how long the task will take-

_Eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three…_

Both boots finally slide free of his feet after the one-hundred-and-thirteenth count. He rises to place them beside the divan and pivots to address her, using his golden hand to gesture at the piece of furniture-

“I can sleep here tonight, my lady.”

“Little purpose to that, isn’t there?” she snaps, nearly startled by her own brusqueness (and embarrassed to recognize it as sheer bravado).

“Come here, please,” she requests, and he complies with only a momentary hesitation. Her heart hammers against her breastbone as she fully registers his close proximity- the warmth of his skin, the scent of his perspiration. She feels a sensation pulling and twisting and knotting through her chest and belly and head- a chill of panic seizes her spine, and memories rush unbidden through her skull- rough hands shoving her skirts up and smallclothes down, pressure from within and without, threatening to tear her asunder, Ramsay’s cruel smirk growing wider and brighter with each of her pained whimpers and quiet screams-

Vomit pulses through her throat and lands in her mouth, but she manages to stop it still and choke it back down.

“This doesn’t have to happen,” Jaime murmurs, his voice sounding leagues away. “Who will know?”

“We will,” she whispers in reply.

He’s confused, and she can hardly blame him. There’s nothing genuine here, it’s all a fragile, temporary shield, meant to guard Ser Jaime against death-by-dragonfire, just long enough to allow him access to a different sort of demise-

She’ll interrogate herself about this later, when the fighting’s done and Ser Jaime and his true love lie dead in each other’s arms. She’ll ask herself why she bothered to wrap her own arms around Jaime’s neck and hoist herself onto his lap. She’ll ask herself why she cradled her face into the crook of his shoulder and felt a warm flush of comfort when he placed his hands- both gold and flesh-and-blood- on the small of her back. She’ll ask herself why she reached down to awkwardly unlace his trousers and nudge her smallclothes down her legs, leaving them looped around one ankle.

But she knows exactly why she frowns at the sight of his troubled emerald-green stare, why she utters a command that clearly brings them an equal measure of relief-

“Keep your eyes closed.”


End file.
